


But It's Sunday

by CharmsDealer



Series: The Diagon Alley Fluff AU [1]
Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Crossover, Gen, Harry Potter - Freeform, Stiles POV, YER A WIZARD STILES, childhood drama, no, why are you throwing out your letter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharmsDealer/pseuds/CharmsDealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Stiles have been friends forever. Why is Scott suddenly dropping him like a hot potato?</p>
            </blockquote>





	But It's Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> No post on Sundays.
> 
> (see the end for more serious questions/ areas of discussion)

Seven years is a long time to be friends, especially when you’ve only been living for eleven, so Stiles couldn’t understand it when suddenly, midway through July, Scott just stopped talking to him.

Scott and Stiles had always been ‘ScottandStiles’, but now Scott was avoiding him. Some of Stiles’ earliest memories were of him and Scott cuddled up on the couch watching Saturday cartoons, small enough to fit under the same quilt folded over twice, drinking juice out of sippy cups. Pranks and scraped knees and their own secret world- how could that all suddenly mean nothing?

Because it was the middle of summer, knowledge of their falling out wasn’t widely known yet, he doubted their parents even knew, and so Stiles still got asked how Scott was doing like nothing was wrong, and sometimes he had to bite his lip and smile cheerfully even though he felt like crying. Maybe he hadn’t known just how much he needed Scott, because the last few weeks had been awful.

“Hey Kiddo,” his Dad said, scrubbing his hand over Stiles’ buzz cut. Even though there was no hair to ruffle, it looked like his Dad wasn’t about to give up the habit. “You’re up late.”

Stiles made a noncommittal sound before he reached across the table to scrape an egg onto his plate. He was about to reach for a slice of toast when the unmistakable sound of post interrupted him; the sharp slap of the letterbox flap. Stiles and his dad both looked up, freezing. His dad’s eyes narrowed playfully and Stiles felt a grin tug at his lips. The way the table was situated, Stiles was farthest from the hall, but his dad was older (and therefore slower) as they both scooted back their chairs at the same time. Stiles saw his seating position as more of a handicap earned by his amazing sprinting skills rather than a disadvantage. He shot out from his seat and dived through the space in the doorway underneath his Dad’s arm, pulling into the lead as they raced to the door. Stiles snatched up the letter with a victorious cry and his dad groaned in mock defeat. He picked Stiles up and swung him around, pretending to fight him for the letter.

“You know the rules! I got to the door first so I get to open it,” Stiles sang. His dad set him down at the bottom of the stairs and crouched in front of him, waiting patiently for Stiles to rip open the seal. Stiles adored the post.

He took a moment to examine the thick envelope properly. The paper was too nice for it to be a bill, that was for sure, and it was addressed to _him_. He turned it over twice with a frown. There was no stamp. He found the lip of the envelope, but instead of ripping it open in joyous abandon, he peeled the seal carefully. His dad quirked an eyebrow at him as he slowly took out the heavy cream coloured parchment, holding it in front of his nose. The first thing he registered was that it was handwritten. The spidery scrawl was penned in the same emerald ink as the address. It took him a few seconds to figure out the words.

_‘Dear Mr. Stillinski, we are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...’_

“Stiles?” his dad prompted. “You okay?”

Stiles dropped the letter onto his lap. “Its junk mail,” he scoffed. “Look.” He passed the letter to his dad who scanned the parchment and the attached list quickly. “There isn’t even any stamp.”

“Do you have any idea who could have sent you this?” his father asked, puzzled. He was using a combination of his ‘dad voice’ and his ‘police officer’ voice, a mild version.

“Nope,” Stiles stood up, “But it’s going straight in the trash.” It was probably some stupid prank. Nothing worth getting riled up over.

His dad watched him as he unceremoniously dumped the letter in the dustbin, staring at him oddly as they sat down and resumed their breakfast.

“...Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” Stiles said again. He shoved the last piece of buttery toast into his mouth and swallowed it without chewing. It scratched on the way down his throat and he gulped down his glass of water to chase the pain. “I’m going ‘round to Scott’s,” he lied blithely. “Have a good day at work.” He grabbed his coat from the hall and was out the front door in a matter of seconds.  

Superintendent Stillinski blinked at Stiles’ empty place at the table.

“...But it’s a Sunday.”

-

Stiles rode around the estate on his bike, looping around the green a few times without any real enthusiasm. He was distracted and lonely, and before he even knew it was happening, he was already freewheeling down the hill to Scott’s house in the cul de sac. He sat back in the saddle and peered down the short, neatly kept front lawn. The red gate was closed and the curtains in front of the sitting room were drawn. Scott’s mom’s car was parked in the drive though.

This was stupid, he was stupid. Scott had already made it blaringly clear that he didn’t want to associate with Stiles any more. He was about to cycle away again when the front door opened and Scott bounded outside with empty milk bottles under his arm. He didn’t notice Stiles was there until it was too late.

“Scott wait,” Stiles jumped off his bike, seizing his chance. “Just talk to me!”

Scott shook his head. His shoulders drooped and he took a step back toward his house. “Go home Stiles, I told you, I can’t hang out with you anymore.”

“Come on Scott,” Stiles tried, “You’re my best friend. Dude, you’re my _only_ friend. I thought I meant something to you.”

At first he thought that Scott was pushing him away for a reason, but maybe Scott was just tired of hanging around the hyperactive kid with the motor mouth. Maybe Scott was tired of all the weird stuff that seemed to happen around Stiles, and tired of getting in trouble because of him. Sure, Scott had asthma and a floppy haircut, he was a little spacey and struggled with reading out loud, but Scott was adorable. Scott could be liked. Maybe, Scott had realised he had to ditch Stiles if he wanted to fit in better next year when they both started secondary school.

Scott wavered, fists balled at his side. The look on his face was one of pure heartbreak and Stiles felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. None of those things had probably even crossed Scott’s mind. Stiles was the scheming one, the manipulative chancer. He didn’t deserve to have such a pure, guileless friend.

“Stiles, you’re _my_ best friend,” Scott said, “but you wouldn’t want to be if I told you the truth.”

Stiles frowned, _The truth?_ “You can tell me anything Scott, you know that, right?”

Scott took a deep breath. “You know how every time we get in trouble because something weird happens?” They were both leaning over the fence now, huddled together after weeks of Scott keeping his distance. It felt good, it felt right. “It’s because of me. I’m not normal Stiles. I’m...I have...” he trailed off, looking at Stiles hopefully.

Stiles was good, but he wasn’t a mind reader. “I don’t get it. _You’re_...?” He made little circles with his head and moved his hands like he was juggling, trying to get Scott to elaborate.

“You know, I’m not so sure I’m even allowed to tell you,” Scott said.

Stiles huffed. “Look Scott, I stand by what I said earlier. You’re my best friend, and nothing you could say, or do, is going to change that. You already tried getting rid of me, and look how well that turned out.”

Scott gave him a lopsided smile, but he still looked sad. “The thing is...I got into this really private boarding school, like, _really_ private. And the only time we’ll ever get to see each other is the holidays. I totally understand if you want to find a new best friend, or if you hate me now, or-”

“You dummy,” Stiles groaned, resting his forehead against Scott’s shoulder, “Just because we won’t be going to the same school doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends. You know we can write to each other.”

“You mean, you’d really do that?”

“Of course man,” Stiles said.

Scott gave him a full smile then.

“So, are we friends?”

“Friends,” Scott said decisively, and they shook hands solemnly.

“No take-backs.”

“No take-backs.”

“So,” Stiles said, “Now that we’re friends again, I need your help with something.”

“Anything,” Scott agreed quickly.

“I got this really weird letter this morning, and I mean like, _really weird._ It was from this made up school – Pigwarts or something- and it was like one of those ‘congratulations, you won the lottery!’ type things, only with a shopping list and-”

Scott gaped at Stiles, eyes round as the full moon. He turned around and fled back up the driveway howling, “ _MOOOO-OOOMM_!”

So that was how Stiles found out that he was a wizard, and that Scott was too.

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of had this idea that if Stiles ever got that kind of letter out of the blue, he would just dismiss it. I have since learned that in the case of muggle-born kiddies, someone from the school goes out to them to verify. In the case of Scott and Stiles living near each other, perhaps they assumed that Stiles would receive help from the McCalls. 
> 
> Scott and Stiles not knowing each other was magic was a fun little idea I had. Originally, I thought that they might make excuses, act weirdly towards each other all summer, but end up bumping into each other on the train. There would be arm punches and sheepish confessions.


End file.
